Fait Accompli
by icor
Summary: Thoughts as cheerful as they can be from a dying man.


There's a pain in my chest and I don't think it's going to go away. My breathing's smoky and it feels as if there's a mellowing sort of grazing inside my lungs; a file wearing away at my ribs, and I'm more aware of the fact that the feeling's there than the pain itself. I can cough, but it's horse and pathetic. It barely clears my throat, just tightens it. Oh god, it's like they've stuck their fingers down my throat and they're worming around like dirty maggots to play with my blood and bile.

There's a pain in my chest and I don't think it's a good thing. I'm smiling for some reason, and I'm not sure why: perhaps, even with this blood gushing out between my fingers, I can appreciate irony. I've always been a man with a good sense of humour, and no time is ever inappropriate, least of all now. There's something about being kicked about in the dirt by the people I worked for – people I was _superior_ to – that almost makes me feel noble. Something about being cold and sterile for five years, needles wrapped around my skin like black lace and mako wetting my lips like mother's milk, and then escaping into a world that's revolving without me that makes me chuckle.

There's a pain in my chest and I don't think I should fight back. Oh, I've been shot before, naturally, once in the knee cap and twice in my right arm, but nothing like this. There's an entourage of bullets, considerately fast too; they rip through me too quickly to really acknowledge anything else but the crisp stream of blood, gentle at first, and the way they make my body dance. How much blood can a person afford to lose? I never did listen all that closely in science class – fighting's always been my way, and so I think I swing out with my sword. God, was it always this heavy? Maybe someone loses an arm or something, because the next thing I know there are rough, angry hands on me, one grasping at the back of my neck and the other tugging at my hair as I'm forced to drink deep from a sodden puddle. It tastes like, tastes like... shit, I don't even know anymore, but it clears my throat a little. Stops my breathing.

There's a pain in my chest and I don't think I mind. I hear one final gunshot, and this one sounds prouder, much more dignified than the others. It might just be because the smoke curls so callously and I can smell that sweet, sweet acrid dust, but either way I don't feel it. It rings in my ears and then the footsteps echo further and further away, until suddenly they become louder and louder. Ah, so that's what this new pain is. Cloud's laying on me, isn't he? I wonder if he's crying, because I can't see anymore; I try to say something, but I cough, splutter and feel the blunt fury forcing it's way out of my rippled throat. I feel fingers at my lips again, but they're not squirming maggots anymore; I think, think and hope, that maybe Cloud's scooping the blood out of my mouth, barely sure of himself. He'd do that for me, wouldn't he: rather let me die from gunshots than choke on my own blood. But I'm glad my smile's broken, because now, when all these "last words" and fuck knows what should be coming out, I'm at a loss. I can't tell him anything he doesn't know. I wanted to live out the rest of my life with him by my side. I told him that. Cloud, please, for me, just survive. I wonder what I look like to him. A punctured rag doll, probably: I bet I'm horrific.

There's a pain in my chest and I think I'm going to die. I can't feel Cloud anymore, and if he's gone then there's nothing. I knew a girl once, a girl with eyes of green – greener than meadows or emeralds or any of that poetry shit - and perfect brown hair on creamy white skin. And you know what, she was mine. All mine. I held her five years ago, held her while I could and told her I loved her. Funny that. Funny how this is ending. I wonder if I'd recognise her if I saw her now, surrounded by flowers and sunlight in that Church, surrounded by things I wouldn't care about if it wasn't for her. Things that really don't mean anything without her. Stupid thought. Even if she was bundled up like a little rag doll, broken just like me, I'd recognise her, somehow. Strange how I can remember those lines on her hands and dirt stains on the hem of her skirt, because her face is completely lost to me. Five years of thinking about nothing but her and my memory's dissolved. I knew a girl once, a girl with eyes of green, and a boy with eyes of blue.

There's a pain in my chest. I think I need to sleep.


End file.
